The Crate
by Zelling
Summary: Joan had been enjoying a particularly quiet and restful period in between detective work. Sherlock had been remarkably well behaved. Everything had been pleasantly calm and peaceful, until the morning Sherlock decided to bring a rather large box home with him.


_**Disclaimer: All copyrighted content belongs to the TV show Elementary, it's creators, writers, and CBS. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. **__**An image of these two popped into my head in the wee hours of the day, and I had to write it down.**_ This is my very first attempt at fanfiction, so expect many revisions! All commentary welcome and beta-reader(s), even better. 

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'Watson!'

The sound, not an unusual occurrence in the brownstone, was a change from the typical early morning chair gazing of an over-productive mind.

Sherlock bellowed once more as he backed through snow flurries and their front door, hands clasped on the handle of an industrial sized goods trolley as it followed him in.

Joan bounded down the stairs to a vision of Sherlock in his patchwork jacket, hauling what appeared to be a large wooden crate into the front hall. She was dressed in her running gear, which Sherlock supposed accounted for the atypical display of early morning exuberance.

'Do I want to know what that is?'.

Joan eyed the box dubiously, wondering if she'd be calling animal services to rescue Sherlock's latest acquisition. It didn't seem to be indicating any live exports were present, and Sherlock wasn't quite truly excited enough to imply that it was so. It was still a smidgen early in the day for any household related purchases, yet Joan held an edge of suspicion for anything that made Sherlock this enthusiastic regardless of the hour.

'Certainly! All the cold case files from 11th Precinct. We've been through my personal collection and I thought you might use the additional practice'.

Sherlock was positively bouncing nonetheless. Joan didn't know whether to roll her eyes in fond exasperation or shake her head. If that was really what was in the box - which she was frankly curious as to why he had bothered to collect personally rather than send a lackey - it was, at the least, a welcome change from his previous endeavours. It was not unusual for him to phrase excuses for his boredom for her own benefit either.

They had not had a fresh case in two weeks, and Sherlock was not taking it well. Not that he ever did, really. This time, he had taken to providing running commentary on all baseball games available in quick succession, complete with full mathematical and social analysis. This was promptly followed by a rather unexpected interest in cheap crime novels, despite having professed his distaste for both pursuits. It was enough to put her off baseball for a time.

She was still finding ripped pages and half mangled, discarded books in places all across the house, despite Ms. Hudsons' best efforts.

'Right. I'm heading out for a run. Text me if you find anything'.

Joan brushed past him, eyeing the box as she went. Sherlock had pulled out a crowbar - of course he kept one by the front door, she thought - and was preparing to jimmy open the box with some glee as the door closed behind her.

The wind was sharp, biting into her layers as she ventured into the pale light of the morning. She always appreciated the timelessness of the light in winter, and didn't mind the cold while running. It helped to wake her up, clear her mind, and motivate her to push harder in an effort for warmth. It was refreshing to get out for a run on a charged battery.

The break in cases had provided a welcome reprieve, enough to get into a somewhat standard circadian rhythm and catch up on her sleep. As a bonus, Sherlock had been unusually circumspect in his late night music sessions. She expected that his using her blender for a particularly vicious novel dissection had had something to do with it. He'd claimed the book was pulp anyway; she'd responded with the fact that this was the third one she'd have to replace, and he may have just crossed the last line with respect to kitchen implements.

Nevertheless, Sherlock had, overall, been remarkably calm. For Sherlock. She had noted his jacket this morning, his previous claims against it apparently no match for his true affections. Joan wasn't sure where he'd got it. Even for Sherlock, it had a large degree of hobo-chic, and he was at least partly aware of the degree of professionalism both of them had to represent in order to smooth processes in their line of work.

The fact that he had bothered to retrieve it from whichever dump he'd relegated it to, and was now wearing it, meant something. She'd file it away for later. No doubt all of her processing power would be required for the substantial number of files now taking up residence on their floor.

Assuming they were indeed case files. It was possible he had retrieved them overnight from the station, that Gregson had tired of his hovering and dumped the whole lot in their laps. Unusual, though, for the release of such a volume so early.

That being said, had it been some new exotic species he'd decided to study, she expected he'd be either making a far better attempt at smuggling it in, or more prompt with the show and tell. Likely Sherlock had gone to the station and retrieved the lot himself, without bothering to tell anyone he'd re-appropriated the information. Really, she would welcome some cold cases. The restlessness had started to creep up on her too, and running just wasn't quite covering it any more.


End file.
